


Clemency

by larvae



Category: Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Choking, F/M, Femdom, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pregnancy, cutting mention, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/larvae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the Lord is with thee;<br/>Blessed art thou among women,<br/>and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,</p><p>The Immortan Joe and The Splendid Angharad have a chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clemency

**Author's Note:**

> Asphyxiation prompt. This isn't porn and it isn't really gross so you have my apologies. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He was on his knees before her in the dim candlelight, her stare bearing heavy on his shoulders, and he knew looking upon her face that here, he would find his salvation. The Immortan was a dying man with a vague memory of Old World romantics, and Angharad was resplendent in the warm, flickering light. The tangle of scars across her brow glittered like dewey spider’s silk, like his seed wasted on her face, like mother’s milk. Her eyes were cold and her skin was warm honey and he knew he had named her well.

She took his face in her hands without being asked, her fingers brushing along a jaw line soft with age and coming to rest on his exposed neck. Her thumbs skirted the teeth of his rebreather, breath hissing through the gaps between them.

“Do you trust me, husband?” she said softly, her voice reverberating in the gloom, the question echoing back to pierce his heart half a dozen times.

Joe reached a hand up to rest on the gentle curve of her stomach, could hardly take his eyes off her face to watch the soft white linen gather between his splayed fingers, “With everything, Angharad.”

Because  _this_  was everything; this was his legacy encased in flesh and out of his hands. Her dead, forgotten sisters had birthed him a cripple, a monster, and a halfwit, and here she was — blue eyed deliverance — come as a balm to the festering wound of his empire. She was Mary full of grace come to bear him a king of kings. The Splendid Angharad would make him truly immortal, she was the final link in what he’d been forging for decades in the wastes. She was beautiful beyond any standard of measure and he would live forever through her; she would bear him a son, an heir, perfect in every way, and in this way he’d give his life to her. His immortality was hers to bring forth in sorrow.

Her thumbs met in the middle of his rebreather and he tilted up his chin, expecting them to slide down to his throat and frame his windpipe. She surprised him, drawing her hands apart to wrap them around the hoses that led to his oxygen tank, slender fingers bumping along their ridges.

“ _He_  will be everything,” she said softly, leaning in to his touch. Her belly was slight, swallowed by his hand, and in the candlelight he told himself her eyes were kind.

“I won’t fail you,” she said, adjusting her grip.

It made Joe’s labored breath catch in his throat. His knees were beginning to complain against the sandstone floor and he tilted his head to the side to crack his neck. Angharad’s hands stayed where they were. They were no longer resting on the tubes of his rebreather so much as guiding his head, and for a moment he felt muzzled.

He glanced at the scars that glistened on her arms. He’d seen plenty stacked in neat columns on the arms, legs, and bellies of his comrades in arms and schoolyard peers. But hers were wild, like blackberry vines snaking their way up her limbs. She’d torn at herself like a rabid animal. No one could say where she’d found the knife and speech had been beyond her. She’d bled into his arms and wept into his neck, sowing  _I’m so sorry_ s between her repentant kisses. _I was so scared._

He’d been worried, then, that the recurring fits were signs of madness. The last tall, blonde, blue-eyed, thing the wastes had gifted him had been irreparably feral, and he was terrified Angharad was as well. But her own hand could not mar her beauty and he could not bring his to finish the job. She stayed, against his better judgement, and she coiled around his heart. What he’d mistaken for madness was unfettered devotion.  _If I can’t be perfect for you I won’t suffer myself to live._

But she  _was_  perfect, in every way, and she was his. His pet, bride, and property; the greatest prize the wastes had ever laid at his feet.

“I will bear you a son, Immortan,” Angharad said, disrupting his reverie, bringing him back to the pain in his knees and the kink in his neck and her hands no longer on his skin, “I will bring forth a prince and you will forge yourself a king.”

Her grip tightened and Joe cleared his throat to mask the cough it forced from his lungs, “What will you do for me?”

“Anything,” he said with a hard swallow, “everything.”

“Anything?”

Joe raised his left hand with the intention of guiding her hands elsewhere, but his gesture was interrupted by a hard turn of Angharad’s wrists that brought his airways to a close. His hand shot out towards her to steady his weight on her hip, and she was unmoved by his touch.

“Gods do not make promises they cannot keep,” she said coldly, giving the tubing in her hands a twist, punctuating her words with its crackling.

Joe’s fingers dug into her skin, the hand he had resting on her stomach slid onto her other hip but it didn’t change much. Her grip on him still won out; he was pinned like an insect.

“My word is law,” he managed to growl as his eyes began to mist.

“And judge and jury,” she said, and his knees buckled, forcing him to sink down to the floor, awkwardly falling with his legs tucked beneath him. His hands slid down past her hips to frame her thighs, “You are the decider of all things.”

Joe curled his fingers against her skin as sweat began to bead on his brow. His pulse hammered in his ears, threatening to drown out Angharad’s voice. She was speaking so softly, she sounded so far away, and the pressure building in his chest was becoming a sharp pain. There was fluid building in his lungs with no functioning rebreather to aid them, and his hands wouldn’t leave her side, wouldn’t pry her away from his oxygen. They clung to her legs and wouldn’t obey him. He gave another hard swallow and grit his teeth, his throat unable to reconcile the lack of air with the lack of constriction. His body rang alarms about phantom hands at his throat as his vision began to swim.

“You are the man who grabs the sun,” Angharad said as the tears brimming in The Immortan’s eyes rolled down his face to run under his rebreather. “My redeemer, come to pull me from the ashes and into His light.”

Joe made a wet choking noise under her and she pushed his head back, forcing him to swallow back down whatever his corrupted lungs had forced up. The gesture exposed his throat, and she thought he looked pathetically docile, crumpled before her like a stray in search of pity. She pictured, not for the first time, what kind of monster this diseased and rotting animal had sowed in her, and it sent a chill up her spine.

“You have my word I will bring forth a son,” she said, releasing her grip and stepping back, watching him fall onto his hands and cough into the floor. His hair pooled on the ground in front of him and caught the worst of what he wretched up, phlegm and bile seeping out from under his rebreather and over his shaking hands, “in your image.“


End file.
